


the body keeps the score

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Introspection, Masturbation, and talk about killing, season 1-3 stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: Villanelle p.o.v. // season 1-3 // one-shot // Someone says to you, once, that you must have been tossed to the ground. 'Dropped on the head' is the phrase.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Mention of Villanelle|Oksana/Anna Leonova
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	the body keeps the score

**I.**

Someone says to you, once, that you must have been tossed to the ground. 'Dropped on the head' is the phrase. As if your brain was rattled one too many times, shake shake shake, until the wires that would have made you a normal child were crossed and irreparably damaged.

You still carry the cuts of this impact. You know you do. You feel them sometimes, in the middle of the night. A faint line across your forehead - _“I should split you open, tupoy otrod'ye...”_ \- and you wonder what your skull recalls oh so vividly. It's just bone after all.

And bones break.  
You've broken a few.  
They mend. Eventually.

Someone says to you, once, that you must be stupid. He is spitting at you, beer wafting off his tongue and dotting your blank face. You sit on the floor, cold and bored. You are always so very bored. You wait for his yelling to become mumbling and for the mumbling to become passing out.

“You are stupid.”

You stand over his stupid body. You say it into his stupid ear. You pour alcohol onto his stupid favorite chair. You set fire to this stupid house.

And you watch it burn.  
You're warm now.  
No longer bored as well.

**II.**

Anna takes hold of your hand, cradling you as though you were delicate; a fluttering bird caught in her house, well-loved blanket coming down over your face so you don't peck her eyes out.

You've never been brittle. But still, it's nice to be cared for. Cared about. It feels a lot like sunshine after winter, ice melting from the eaves, dripping into your bloodstream all cool.

Anna takes hold of your heart, bigger than you thought it might be, and she teaches you the language of adoration, of want. She nails these words to your skin - _“...tu es exceptionnel...”_ \- and you know it to be true. Because of her. All because of her.

You'll give her Paris.  
You'll give her everything.  
You are exceptional, from your studies to the strength of your yearning.

“You are so special...,” she pets your cheek and you shift into her arms, and you listen for when her breath catches as your fingertips caress underneath her shirt, “...so very special...”

And the whole of you buzzes with the sensation of desiring, of getting, of having.

**III.**

First. Tenth. This one. That one.

There is beauty to be found here, at the end of their life by your hands. You lean in close to catch it all, the sweet sting of fear mingling with a second or two of fight, and you watch and you stare and you absorb it all into your lungs like air.

The sweat on their foreheads.  
The parting of their lips.  
Muscles once tight now slack.

And you see yourself reflected in their eyes, dark and wide. And you smile into that emptiness, run your tongue over your teeth. And you wish it wasn't all so fleeting.

You wish you could stay here. Sometimes. Forever chasing someone down. Fooling them. Capturing them. It makes life so much more interesting. You wish you could keep this moment – his body keeling over slowly, her gaze freezing so suddenly – you wish you could keep it close instead of always losing it again.

That one. This one. Twentieth. Thirtieth. 

Forever looking. Always searching. More and more and more.  
It's an itch that returns with every dawn, with every dusk.

And you wonder what wire makes you this way, did it get frayed a million years ago, and does it matter...does anything matter other than a few brief seconds between the killer and the killed?

You don't think so.

**IV.**

It is possible that she might be the one person you'd like to see. As in truly, honestly see.

Not likely, of course, but there's a new and dangerous edge to your movements now. 

It's new, this heady swirling in your gut, and it's new, this scar embedded upon your abdomen, and it's so completely new, this tower of feeling rising up inside of you.

You wish you could set Eve's house on fire. You wish you could steal her breath away. You wish you could hover over her face and see everything, see everything that makes Eve... Eve. And still find her alive at the end, arms and legs moving and eyelids blinking – see her and not kill her, see her and feel her and know her.

Your blood comes in waves.  
Your tears stain your face.  
Your pain is startling and blinding.

And you run your tongue over your teeth and now you've got more old wounds that ache, at least sometimes, and your wife-to-be isn't at all like Eve and that's all for the better because you killed Eve. Because you killed Eve, left her behind like dust wiped down from your boots, and all your edges are familiar once more.

You've set even the strangest of wires right again. Because that's what you do. Because you are special.

Because you are exceptional.

You are untouchable.

**V.**

Ah, but maybe you are stupid anyway. Maybe you were dropped on your tiny little head one too many times to make sense. Maybe all the aching is just neediness, coming to haunt you while you sleep, and maybe all you've ever wanted is for someone to actually see you.

All of you. All the places where you don't fit. All the agony you can cause and all the terror you can take. All your shadows. All the sharp shards that make up whatever your soul is.

To be seen... what a thought... 

...and so you think about Eve, about the bruise tender at your brow, and you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and swallow down the taste of her, and you sigh so dreamily and touch yourself and revel in this sensation again...

And the wires spark. And the flames reach higher.  
And you are falling. Chasing. Seeking out forever.

_Eve's fist hitting your face. Eve's collarbone against your arm._  
_Eve's mouth, firm yet soft. Eve's anger. Eve's lust._

And your hips roll and jerk. And you come, a guttural release leaving your throat. 

_Eve and a knife. Eve and a bullet._  
_Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve._

Oh yes... you are so stupid, so very very stupid, aren't you?

**[end]**

**Author's Note:**

> Got the title from a book title; I've not read it, but it just sparked an idea. Thanks to the music of Jenny Hval, primarily.  
> All mistakes are mine. Cheers.


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